


Year 2009

by Luna_Hart



Series: Snapshots [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Celebrations, Coming Out, Feelings, Fourth of July, Hurt/Comfort, Jack's Family - Freeform, M/M, Missions Gone Wrong, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, original character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-19 05:54:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11307093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luna_Hart/pseuds/Luna_Hart
Summary: A collection of moments in the lives of Brock Rumlow and Jack Rollings:The 4th of July, Natasha's mission gone wrong, and meeting Jack's Mother





	1. July

“And then he said ‘Probably. I was the cook’!!” Everyone groaned as Murphy finished the joke. Brock threw a burger bun at his head. Hunter and Lee said nothing, just exchanged a glance before grabbing Murphy and dumping him in the pool. Jack just shook his head.

It was a balmy 4th of July and Lee’s backyard was decked out in red, white, and blue splendour. He and his wife had generously offered to host the BBQ for STRIKE, since their house boasted a massive backyard.

Jack took a moment to glance around the yard. Lee and Hunter were currently not letting Murphy out of the pool. Evans and Richfield had found a soccer ball and were engaged in a fierce game with Jennings, Zhang, Waters, Lewis, and Lee’s six year old son Connor. Brock and Quinn had gotten into a debate about the advantages of two different types of tactical knives. Jack smirked. Typical.

Various other STRIKE members were milling about the lawn, others having come and gone throughout the day.  
Jack himself had been delegated to grill master. Brock had even pulled out that stupid apron Murphy had given Jack with a flourish and a smirk. Jack had rolled his eyes and put on the army green apron, the one with GRILL SERGEANT emblazoned in bold print on the front.

So Jack flipped burgers and hot dogs, listening to the banter and the laughter.  
“What’s cooking, good looking?” A mischievous voice called to him from the other side of the patio. Jack looked up and smiled as Kingsley wheeled herself over to him.  
“That’s the best you can do?” Jack drawled.  
“Hey, my standup is lacking these days,” Kingsley commented mildly. Jack shook his head in disbelief.  
“Jesus, Kingsley.”  
“Trish, please,” she requested. “I’m not in STRIKE anymore, Jack. I’d prefer a first name basis.”  
“Alright. Trish it is,” Jack agreed, pulling a chair up next to her and clinking his beer against her glass of punch.

They sat in silence for a while, watching the antics of the others. Jack couldn’t help but grin as Brock threw his head back and roared in laughter at something Lee said.

“He came to see me you know,” Trish commented, following Jack’s gaze.  
“I know,” Jack replied softly. He remember the day well, a few weeks after they had gotten back from the cabin the previous year. Brock had disappeared all day and had returned with eyes red-rimmed and puffy looking. He said he had been to see her and that was all Jack could get him to say on the subject.

“Took him long enough, but he came,” Trish took a sip of water before continuing. “He tried to apologies but I wouldn’t let him. I told him none it was his fault. I think I said it enough times that by the end he started to believe me.”  
“Yeah,” was all Jack offered, taking a long swig.  
They sat in silence for another long moment.

“So how long have you two been fucking?”

Jack choked. He turned to the young woman. Her eyes sparkled with mischief.

“What the fuck, Trish!?” He growled.

“You gonna tell me you aren’t tapping that? Because if not, what the hell is wrong with you?"

“Jesus, say it louder why don’t you,” Jack whispered harshly. “I think the Assistant Director currently on vacation in Bermuda didn’t hear you!”

“How long?”

Jack got very quiet. He stared intently at the beer bottle in his hands. His fingers picked at the label until a hand reached out and gently settled on top of his. He looked up into empathetic eyes.  
Jack looked away again. He had never talked about this side of him to anyone, ever. He really should just deny it, laugh and scoff it off or make a lewd joke about it. Yet the prospect of actually talking about it to someone, while terrifying, was also somewhat appealing.

“Three years,” he finally confessed quietly. The hand on his squeezed once before pulling away.

“You living together?”

Jack nodded. Trish hummed at the confirmation.  
“You’re good for each other,” she commented. Jack looked up, startled, and she smiled. “You balance him out. Brock is an idealist, a dreamer for all that he pretends not to be. He gets his heart wrapped up in everything and then doesn’t know how to deal with it.”  
“And when did you learn so much about him?” Jack drawled.

Trish just smiled.  
“We went through basic together. Two rough-edged kids from the wrong side of the tracks. We looked out for each other. Got recruited to S.H.I.E.L.D. together.”  
“I didn’t know,” Jack said softly. Sometimes, just as he felt like he was getting to know Brock, something like this would come out of left field and reaffirm that he still didn’t know the man at all.

“We were never terribly close,” Trish continued. “But we watched each others backs. I’m glad he has you,” she said softly, turning back to Jack. Jack forced himself to meet her steady gaze.  
“You’re the more practical. You aren’t scared of your own feelings.”

Jack scoffed.

“What I mean,” Trish said patiently. “It that you see your feelings for what they are and deal with them head on. Brock likes to pretend they don’t exist.”  
“Yeah, I’d noticed,” Jack said sarcastically. Trish gave a throaty chuckle.  
“He’ll get there, don’t worry.”  
Jack offered her a small smile before leaping back to the grill with a curse. He flipped the burgers, letting out a sigh that they weren’t burnt.

“Hey grill master, you better not have burnt the grub because you were trying to put the moves on Kingsley!” Hunter’s voice boomed across the yard.

Jack didn’t even turn, just flipped him the bird which prompted a raucous laugh.

 

Later, after everyone had stuffed themselves silly and the sun had since dipped below the horizon, Lee announced that they should all move the celebration up to the rooftop to watch the fireworks. Conner bounced excitedly past as Jack approached Trish.

“May I?” He offered. She gave him a tight smile and nodded, reaching down to unbuckle the straps keeping her in the wheelchair.  
“I hate this,” she confessed quietly. Jack said nothing, there wasn’t anything he could say. He just laid his hand over hers and squeezed, just as she had done for him. She gave him another smile, this one a little lighter.

He gently picked her up, cradling her against his chest. “Well, this isn’t so bad I suppose,” Trish commended, sneaking a feel along his bicep. Jack chuckled as they made their way inside. He walked slowly, purposely lagging behind to let Zhang and Evans get up the stairs first. If Trish noticed what he was doing, she didn’t comment.

“How did you know?” Jack asked softly as they started up the stairs.  
“The way he looks at you when he thinks no one else is watching,” was the quiet reply right by his ear. “And you at him.”

Jack swallowed thickly. His chest felt tight. He didn’t think they had been that obvious. As if sensing his distress Trish placed a steadying hand on his chest.  
“It’s not so obvious. You have to look for it. I’ve had my suspicious for a while so I was looking for confirmation.”

"You won't-" Jack started, worried about getting the two of them outed. Brock would never forgive him, not to mention the end of both of their careers. Trish shushed him.  
"My lips are sealed," she promised.

“How long?” Jack questioned, parroting Trish’s earlier inquiry.  
“Since the day of that disastrous mandatory team building seminar. The one with that —,”  
“Beady-eyed little shit in the tweed jacket,” Jack remembered.

None of STRIKE had taken it seriously. They had all been pulled into the Director’s office after and read the riot act, but there had been no more mandatory team building seminars after that. Jack faltered. That had been years ago, in early 2006. That had been before Jack had ever acted on his feelings, before that embarrassing yet fruitful day in the showers.

“But that was before —,” that was as far as Jack had gotten. They had made it to the top floor and Richfield was standing in the doorway, beaconing them through.

As Jack and Trish stepped out onto the rooftop, he caught sight of Brock sprawled out along a plush love-seat. He waved them over, standing and presenting the seat with a flourish.  
Jack gently set Trish down before tossing a blanket over her legs. He sat down next to her and Brock perched on the other arm.

Jack glanced around. STRIKE had taken up every corner of the rooftop, leaning against the railings, or sprawled across the various seating. Lee had his arms wrapped around his wife with a smile, and Evans hoisted little Connor up on his shoulders so he could see better.

Jack smiled. Each and every person there, even Murphy, was part of the STRIKE family, and family took care of family. Jack wished he had brought his camera.

He felt eyes on him and glanced over and up to Brock. The older man returned his smile as the first fireworks lit up the night sky.


	2. August

Jack stepped into the building bright and early Thursday morning and was greeted with a flurry of activity.  
“What the —hey, what the fuck is going on?” He demanded, grabbing a young tech by the arm. He stammered and stumbled through an answer that Jack couldn’t understand before scampering back down the hall.  
“Rollins!”  
“Hunter,” Jack exclaimed as the other STRIKE agent trotted up to him.  
“Get your gear, wheels up in ten.”  
“What the fuck happened?” Jack demanded.  
“We’ve lost contact with Black Widow. She missed her extraction point and we haven’t been able to raise her on comms. We’re being sent in,” Hunter tossed over his shoulder as he continued down the hall.  
“Shit,” Jack swore and took off after Hunter.

He had met Natasha Romanoff, code named Black Widow, only a handful of times. She had been recruited by Agent Barton a few years back and had been working covert operations for S.H.I.E.L.D. ever since. Her reputation was legendary. If she was late for an extraction, it could only mean big trouble.

Brock was grim and all business as Jack ran up the ramp into the jet. He had just taken a seat next to Hunter when Agent Barton bounded up, bow in hand and quiver slung across his shoulders. He shared a nod with Brock before silently climbing into the pilots seat. The engines roared to life as they all found their seats.

“Agent Romanoff was sent to extract a Russian nuclear scientist, Vadim Kuznetsov, out of Iran,” Brock briefed STRIKE and Agent Barton as the jet roared through the sky.  
“We lost contact with her a six miles outside of Odessa and it’s been radio silence ever since. Here's what we know for sure--”

Brock continued the briefing as STRIKE checked and double checked their equipment.

 

As soon as Jack stepped off the plane he was hit by an intense wave of heat and humidity. His under layers were already starting to stick to his skin. Barton fell into step beside him, an arrow notched.

The first time Jack has seen the archer, he had almost laughed out loud. This wasn't the fucking circus, yet here was a regular freak show with a bow and arrow and a mouth that made even Brock seem quiet and soft-spoken.  
After seeing the blonde haired man in action, he was very glad he had held his tongue. Barton was as fluid and graceful with his bow as Brock with a knife in his hand. Jack had never seen him miss a target, ever. In the field, Barton tended to shit-talk over the comms, cracking jokes at inappropriate times, but never when it could distract someone or put someone in any sort of danger.  
For these reasons, Jack had a healthy dose of respect for the other man.

STRIKE carefully made their way out to the road. “Shit,” Brock muttered as they approached the last known position of Agent Romanoff. There wasn’t anything there. Nothing but overlapping tire tracks and dust.  
“Hunter and Murphy, you take Barton and scout North. Rollins and I will head South. I want check-ins every five minutes. Move out.”

They went their separate ways, rifles at the ready. Three radio checks passed without incident before Rollins and Jack came across deep skid marks in the road.  
“Shit, shit, shit,” Brock cursed as they followed the skid marks to the edge of the cliff. Down a steep embankment sat the crushed heap of a vehicle.

“STRIKE, we found the vehicle. Just over two klicks south from your current position.”  
“Any sign of Romanoff?” Barton’s voice snapped over the comms.  
“Negative,” Brock grunted as he and Jack began carefully scrambling down the embankment. “The truck went over the cliff. On approach now.”

Jack tuned out Barton’s curse as they slide the rest of the way down to the valley floor. He flanked Brock as they carefully approached the vehicle. As they rounded the other side, they were confronted with an unfortunate sight.

“Got a body,” Brock sighed. “It’s Kuznetsov.”  
Jack knelt and felt for a pulse as per protocol, not expecting much considering the two bullet holes in the man; one in the abdomen and one square in the middle of his forehead.

Jack felt the air move and had just enough time to raise his hand to catch the slim arm that sliced a knife towards his neck.  
He yanked, intending to throw is attacker over his shoulder, and the next thing he knew he was on his back, seeing stars. Straddling him, knife pressed to his throat, was a red-haired woman. She glared intently, if slightly unfocused, down at him. Her clothing was ripped off one shoulder, revealing a deep gash which bled sluggishly.

“Stand down, Agent Romanoff,” Brock snapped, coming up from the side with rifle raised.  
Jack carefully raised his hands in surrender, keeping his movements slow and calm. Romanoff’s eyes flicked up to Brock, and then back down to Jack.  
“Commander Rumlow,” she said, only a little breathless. “Took you long enough. Rollins,” she commented as the knife vanished from Jack’s neck.  
“Romanoff,” Jack grunted, getting to his feet. Romanoff stood, swayed, and would have fallen if Jack hadn’t caught her.

“Easy,” he murmured, seeing scarlet blood staining the lower front of her abdomen. “Let’s get some pressure on this,” he said, pulling out an ABD pressure bandage from his tac vest as the rest of STRIKE and Barton scrambled down the slope. Above, engines roared as the jet flew overhead and dissented into the valley.

Later, on the way home, Romanoff told the story. “Someone shot out my tires,” she said from where she lay, strapped onto a gurney and all bandaged up. She winced as Hunter inserted an I.V. needle into her arms and taped in it place.

“Lost control and went over the cliff,” she continued. “We both survived. I was pulling Kuznetsov out of the wreck, but then he was there."

"He who?" Brock asked sharply, but Romanoff only shook her head.

"I don't know. Couldn't see him clearly. Shot right through me to get to Kuznetsov. Didn’t even hesitate.”  
She looked shaken, something that made Rollins uneasy.  
“Ok, enough for now,” Barton ordered from the cockpit, as if sensing Romanoff’s eyes fluttering. “She's lost a lot of blood. We can finish the debrief back at headquarters.”

Brock and Jack exchanged a look. Whoever this assassin was, he was very dangerous. A new player in the game never meant good news, only more work for them.

 

As Jack was just finishing stowing the last of his gear, looking forward to a weekend with no obligations, his cell rang. He answered it, silently praying it wasn't anything work related. He was dusty and sweaty and just wanted a shower and a decent cup of coffee.  
“Rollins,” he answered gruffly.

“Jack?” A young woman’s familiar voice said on the other end.

“Jenny?” Jack questioned, surprised.  
He hadn’t heard from his sister in ages. In fact, he hadn’t talked to any of his family since Christmas, and hadn’t seen them in even longer. He hadn’t stayed in close touch with his family, something he often regretted but was necessary in his line of work. At least that’s how he justified it to himself.

“It’s Mum,” Jenny said quietly.

 

Two hours later and Jack was sitting in the airport, waiting for his flight to Charleston, North Carolina.  
He fiddled with his phone before sending a quick text to Brock to explain. He hadn’t even seen the man before he left. He got leave from Ass. Director Shaw and had gone straight from headquarters to the airport. He didn’t even have a change of clothes.

A phone dinged to his left as a dark haired man in a grey shirt and jeans sat next to him.  
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Jack demanded.  
Brock pulled his aviators off his face and gave him a look. “What the fuck do you think I'm doing here? I arranged everything with Shaw. He thinks I’m going to some tactical seminar in Huston.”

“How are you gonna pull that one off?” Jack scoffed.

“Evans owes me a few favours. He’ll give me the cliff notes. Here,” Brock kicked over Jack’s go bag. “I figured you just took off without packing.”  
“Thanks,” Jack said and meant it.

He wanted to say something else, but wasn’t sure what the right words were. He was saved from having to say anything else as their flight was called.  
Just when he thought he had Brock figured out, the man went and did something like this.

 

Three hours later and Jack was sitting in the passenger seat as Brock drove. He sent a text to his sister with their ETA. He had said very little on the flight, consumed with his own thoughts. Brock didn’t push him, just offering quiet support.

Jack took a deep breath as they parked at the hospital. He felt all shaky inside, like someone was making balloon animals with his guts. Brock clapped him on the shoulder briefly as they made their way inside.

They were inquiring at the front desk when a quiet “Jack?” made him turn.  
“Jenny,” Jack started awkwardly, not really knowing what to do with himself. Jenny solved the problem for him by pulling him into a tight embrace. He froze for a moment before returning the hug, holding his little sister as close as he could.

 

 

Brock was pretty sure he had known Jack had a sister. He must have known. He turned when he hear the other man’s name called and saw a slim brunette woman throw her arms around Jack. They held each other close as Brock stood patiently and tried not to intrude.

“I’m sorry, I’m Jenny. You’re a friend of Jack’s?” Jenny asked, extended a hand to Brock. Brock fidgeted under her scrutinizing gaze. It felt like she was looking right into him, and it made feel like a bug under a microscope.

“Brock Rumlow, ma’am. We work together.”  
“Pleasure, and please call me Jenny,” she smiled a smile that somehow seemed like she knew more than Brock wanted her to before turning back to Jack.

“How is she?” Jack asked quietly. Brock watched as Jenny took a deep breath.  
“Not good. The doctors say it….well, it won’t be long.”  
Her chin wobbled and Jack pulled her into his arms again, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. Brock looked down, swallowing hard. It hit hard that he had never really talked to Jack about his family, his upbringing. A comment here and there, reference and a handful of phone calls but that was about it. Brock himself had very little family to speak of so it wasn’t like he could offer much in return.

Jenny pulled back from Jack, wiping her eyes and pulling herself together. “This way.”

She led them through a maze of hallways before reaching a private room. Jenny smiled. “I’ll give you some time. I’m gonna go get a coffee. You boys want anything?” Both Brock and Jack politely refused and she went on her way.  
“I’ll just..wait out here,” Brock said lamely, moving to sit in an uncomfortable looking plastic chair, but Jack shook his head.  
“Nope,” was all the taller man said before dragging Brock into the room.

The stark white hospital room had been transformed. Brightly coloured blankets were thrown over all the chairs, and the window and tables filled with flowers.

Jack’s mother, Janette, lay tucked in bed, a red and blue patterned blanket wrapped over her legs.  
She opened her eyes and smiled tiredly, reaching a hand towards her son.

“Jack,” she whispered.

“Hey Mama,” Jack said as he sat beside her, leaning in to kiss her cheek. Brock hung back by the door, not wanting to intrude.  
“Oh Jack, my Jack,” she whispered, stroking a shaky hand through his hair and down his face.

She inhaled sharply as her hand encountered the thick, ropy scar that wrapped under his jaw. Her eyes grew dark with concern and she pursed her lips.  
“I’m fine, Mama,” Jack reassured her, taking her hands in his.  
“I don’t like it,” she said crossly. Her hands were dwarfed between the two of Jack’s. “You risking your life all the time like this. Why the military, Jack? Remember when you wanted to be a photographer?”

Jack chuckled. “That’s just a hobby, Mama. And I’ve got good people watching my back,” Brock froze when Jack turned to look at him. Janette peered around Jack’s mass and smiled.  
“I’m sorry dear, I didn’t see you there,” Janette smiled and beckoned him closer.  
Brock stepped up until he was standing just behind Jack. He know knew where Jenny got that piercing stare from.

“Brock Rumlow, ma’am. I work with your s —,”

“We live together, Mama,” Jack interrupted and Brock froze.

He looked down at Jack with wide eyes but the other man was pointedly staring at the bedspread, avoiding both Brock and Janette’s eyes.

“We…we’re….I mean,” Jack trailed off with a swallow, unable to find or use the right words.  
There was a long pause. Brock could hear the blood rushing in his ears. Janette just stared down at her son, eyes wide. They flicked briefly up to Brock and then back down to Jack.

“For how long?” She asked quietly and Brock wanted to badly just to sink into the floor, or run, but his feet felt stuck. This hadn’t been part of the plan. They always agreed on the plan. Jack was so tense Brock was surprised that something didn’t snap.

Jack mumbled something, his head ducked as far down as possible.  
“Jack Francis Rollins, look at me right now,” his mother commanded. Brock had heard Army Generals speak with less iron in their voices.  
Jack reluctantly raised his head, pointedly looking at a spot directly above Janette’s head. She reached up and grasped his chin, making him look at her.

Brock could tell that Jack was struggling to maintain eye contact but she wouldn’t let him look away. Her lips were pursed and she looked downright pissed. Brock felt nauseous.

“For how long?” She repeated her question, her eyes hard.

 

Jack struggled to keep his voice steady as he gave his mother a kiss on the cheek. She looked so small, dwarfed in this massive hospital bed. Her smile looked tired, her hand shook ever so slightly, and her voice was softer than Jack ever remembered.

As he held her hands, he kicked himself for not visiting more often. For not making the time to take a two hour flight ever weekend or so. It is always when it was too late that one regrets things.

Jack didn’t want to regret anything else, especially when it came to the woman who had raised him and his sister all by herself. So when Brock started to introduce himself as a work friend, Jack heard himself speak before he could think it through.

“We live together, Mama.”

Jack could feel Brock stiffen behind him. All his courage drained away as his mother turned her eyes to him.

“We…we’re…I mean,” Jack couldn’t continue. He screwed up, he could tell. He hadn’t thought this through. He should have thought this through. It wasn’t fair to Brock, having this sprung on him so suddenly. Jack was just scared he wouldn’t get another chance to tell her.

“For how long?” Jack cringed at the even, calm tone of her voice. He was about to be disowned by his own mother, on her deathbed no less.

He mumbled something even he couldn’t understand but his mother wasn’t having any of that.  
“Jack Francis Rollins,” Jack knew he was in big trouble when she used all three of his names. “Look at me right now.”

Jack pointedly didn’t look at her, instead focusing on the wall above her head. He felt a hand grab his chin and yank it down. He flinched at how frail she was. His eyes met hers and he felt like he was ten years old again, getting in trouble for knocking over Mrs. Gibson’s mailbox.

“For how long?” She repeated, her eyes hard and giving nothing away. Jack tried and failed to swallow the lump in his throat.

“Three years,” he whispered.

This was it. This was the moment he was thrown out of the room.

“And I’m just finding out about this now!? After three years? I raised you better than that!”

Jack flinched. “I’m sorry Mama,” he whispered, looking down to hide his shame. There was a long silence.

“Oh,” he heard his mother say softly. “Oh Jack, sweetie, no.”

“I’m sorry I disappoint you,” he muttered. A hand slid under his chain again and forced him to look up. He met her eye’s reluctantly.  
“You could never disappoint me,” his mother said, her eyes overflowing with love and a little sadness. “Don’t you dare think otherwise, ever!” She snapped.

“Sorry Mama,” he whispered again.

“I love you,” his mama said, a gentle hand on his cheek. “I always will, no matter what you do or who you love.”

Jack couldn’t find his voice, his throat felt so tight. This was more than he could have hoped for, had ever dreamed of. He heard Brock exhale the breath he had no doubt been holding. She swiped away a stray tear that leaked from the corner of his eye before she turned to Brock again.

“Now, come here, young man. No need to be nervous. I want to have a proper look at the man my son loves.”  
Jack tensed. They had always stayed away from that short four letter word. If Brock was fazed he didn’t show it.

Brock stepped forward till he stood next to Jack. He bent over with a smile and gently kissed his mother’s hand.  
“Brock Rumlow, ma’am. Pleasure to meet you.”  
“Such a charmer. You certainly know how to pick them,” she smiled with a sidelong glance at Jack. He felt a blush creep up the back of his neck.  
“And call me Janette, none of this ma’am nonsense,” she ordered.  
Brock smirked that little crooked grin he got when he was being mischievous.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied.

“Cheeky,” his mother scolded with a smile in her eyes. “Military man as well I assume?” She continued.

“Yes ma’am…uh, Janette,” Brock corrected as the woman fixed Brock with a glare that would have any battle hardened general quaking in his boots.

“Well, pull up a chair. Tell me everything! How did you meet? When did you move in together? Don’t leave anything out! I have a lot to catch up on. Oh, just wait until your sister finds out!”

Brock chuckled and did as she instructed. Jack met Brock’s eyes, trying to convey…he didn’t even know what but Brock seemed to get it. He nodded with a small smile before turning his attention back to Jack’s mother.

 

A long while later they had run out of things to talk about and Janette was starting to get tired. Jenny promised she would be back in an hour and stepped out.  
“Jack,” his mother said, patting him on the hand. “Be a dear and run and get me some ice chips from the machine downstairs.”

“I can go,” Brock offered, starting to rise from his chair.

“You sit,” Jack’s mother commanded, snapping her fingers at the man. Jack chuckled as Brock meekly sat back down.  
“Go on dear,” his mother prompted. “I want a word with this young man of yours, alone.”  
“Don’t break him Mama,” Jack said with a smile. He kissed his mother on the cheek before he saw himself out. He patted Brock on the shoulder as he passed.

 

In the hallway Jack took a long deep breath. As amazing as everything had been the past few hours, the inevitable still weighed on him heavily. His mother looked so small, and she tired so fast. He cursed silently and started down the hall.

He exited the elevator and as he turned the corner he spotted his sister. Jenny stood in front of the coffee machine, staring at it. He went over and stood beside her.  
Her eyes were red and puffy. She sniffed, rubbing her nose of her sleeve.  
“I thought Mum had broke you of that habit years ago,” Jack nettled. Jenny just shrugged before her face crumpled. Jack opened his arms and held her tight as she sobbed, slender shoulders shaking.

After a few moments she calmed and pulled away. He wiped his own eyes as she got herself back under control.  
“How long can you stay?” Jenny asked, fishing into her wallet for change.  
“Just until the day after tomorrow,” Jack replied, beating her to it and sliding his credit card into the machine.  
“Look, Jen, I —” he began but she cut him off.  
“I always knew you know,” she said as she selected her coffee choice. “Somehow I always knew. I just wish you trusted us more.”

“I do trust you,” Jack objected weakly but any other protests died on his lips with the look that Jenny gave him. She grabbed her coffee and he reached across to make a selection himself.  
“Being in the military, you know, it makes it…complicated.” Jack fumbled. He knew that it didn’t really matter with S.H.I.E.L.D. It wasn’t the armed forces, it didn’t matter who he bedded. Well, it would matter if word got out he was bedding his CO.

“I know,” Jenny sighed. “I still wish you had told me.”  
“I’m sorry,” Jack said, grabbing his coffee and pouring one for Brock. “For everything. For not being here, for not visiting more often,”

“Stop right there,” his sister interrupted. “That kinda talk does no one any good." Jack had to smile. She sounded just like their mother. She turned to him and placed a hand on his arm. “You’re hear now. That’s what matters.”  
She gave him a quick peck on the cheek before turning around and heading towards the cafeteria. Jack took one more deep breath and went to find ice chips.

 

Jack returned to the room juggling two coffees and a cup of ice chips. He knocked with his foot before opening the door. Brock had taken over his chair and was holding his mother’s hands in his. They both looked up and back as Jack entered the room.

Brock smiled before turning back to his mother. He said something to quiet for Jack to hear before pressing a quick kiss to Jack's mother's cheek and walking over to Jack.

Jack held out one of the coffees which Brock took with a smile before stepping outside. Jack heard the door close with a soft click as he sat down next to the bed.  
His mother smiled up at him and held her arms out to him. He leaned forward and she cupped his face in her hands.  
“My boy,” she said softly. “You take care of yourself, you hear?”

“I will,” Jack promised.

“And hold onto that young man of yours,” she said with mischief in her eyes. “He’s one of the good ones and I can tell he loves you very much, for all he probably has trouble saying it.”

Jack nodded, not trusting his voice. He reached up and took one of her hands in his. She looked so tired.

“I love you, Mama,” he whispered.

“I love you too, baby.”

 

 

After Jack had left the room to get ice chips, Brock couldn’t help but fidget. He didn’t know where to look, or what to do with his hands. Janette beckoned him closer, pointing to the chair Jack had just vacated.

“So,” she said to Brock. “I don’t suppose I have to tell you that if you ever hurt my son no one will ever find your body. I have people for that.”  
Brock would have laughed at that, considering what he and Jack did for a living, if he hadn’t been completely terrified.

“No ma’am.”

“Janette.”

“Yes ma’am,” Brock felt like he was sweating bullets. He licked his lips nervously. Janette must have taken pity on him. Her eyes softened.

“Deep breath, you’re doing fine.” She smiled coaxingly at him until he felt his lips tug into a small smile. “So, what about your family? Do they live in Washington too?”

Of course that’s where she would start.

“Uh, no ma’am,” Brock faltered. Janette waited patiently for him continue.  
“I have a foster mother in New York I’m still in contact with,” Janette nodded, a look in her eyes like she was beginning to unravel a puzzle.

“Has Jack met her yet?”

Brock swallowed thickly. “No ma’am, she….uh, I haven’t…she’s very traditional. I don’t think she would…approve.”  
He looked down, embarrassed.

“Well, you will always have a family here,” she promised. Brock looked up into the most compassionate eyes he’d ever seen. They were the exact same colour green as Jack’s.  
Brock’s throat tightened and he nodded, not knowing what else to say. Luckily, he didn't have to. Janette filled in the gaps, asking him this and that about his life. She never dug too deep, which Brock was thankful for. He had plenty of things he hadn't even shared with Jack yet, they were that uncomfortable.

At last Janette seems satisfied and she gave him another warm smile and a pat on the hand.  
“No fear, you've passed the test. I only wish I had the time to get to know you better.”

“You probably wouldn’t like me all that much if you did,” Brock confessed, feeling compelled to be completely honest with this woman.

“I think I would. I have a good sense about these things, about people. I can tell you have a good heart.”

Brock felt his cheeks go hot and he ducked his head down. If only she knew, she wouldn’t say such things then. A small hand slipped under his chin and brought his eyes up to meet hers again.

“Everyone has their share of ghosts,” Janette said quietly. “Some more than others I think,” she smiled sadly, a knowing look in her eyes that scared and warmed Brock at the same time.

“Just….just love him," she continued. "That’s all I ask. Love him, and let him love you.”

Brock opened his mouth to say…something, he wasn't sure what but then there was a soft knock at the door. Brock looked over his shoulder and threw Jack a small smile before turning back to Janette.

“I promise,” he said quietly, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “I promise,” he said again.

They shared a quick smile and she patted him on the cheek before Brock took his leave. He took the coffee Jack offered him with a smile and went to wait in the hallway.

 

He finished his coffee and dosed in the uncomfortable plastic chair. He jerked away as he heard the door beside him click shut. He got to his feet as Jack turned to him.

“She’s sleeping,” he said quietly.  
“What do you wanna do?” Brock asked. Jack sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“Let’s go find a motel, check in for the night. Get something to eat. We can come back in a few hours.”  
“Okay,” Brock agreed.

“Your mother is a formidable woman,” he said as they walked down the hall.  
“Yeah,” was all Jack offered. They walked in silence for a moment before Brock couldn’t stand it anymore.

“You’re middle name is Francis?”

“Shut up.”

 

They had just gotten settled into their hotel room when Jack’s phone rang. Brock puttered around in the bathroom as Jack answered it. As Brock came back into the room he found Jack sitting on the edge of the closer bed, his shoulders slumped forward.

“Jack?”

“She’s gone,” Jack said quietly.

His shoulders started to shake and he brought a hand up to cover his face. Brock’s chest constricted, Janette's last words to him echoing across his mind. He strode across the room and pulled Jack into his arms. He held Jack as the bigger man shook with quiet sobs, carding his fingers gently through his hair.

 

The trip home was short and painless. Jack didn’t say much, answering any questions in short, clipped sentences. Life continued relatively uninterrupted once they were back.  
STRIKE would clap Jack on the shoulder, or fix and replace damaged gear for him. Jack opened his locker one morning to find a new set of tactical knifes and Hunter watching out of the corner of his eye. It was how they operated, how they showed they cared.

Jack and Brock flew back for the funeral a month later. They stayed in Jack's old bedroom at the homestead at Jenny’s insistence. Jack said very little and Brock just tried to be a source of support.

 

A few months later, Brock and Jack were clearing out the bookshelves in preparation for some renovations Brock wanted to make.

Brock was taking down the last few books when he fumbled and dropped his armful. A massive thick-spine monstrosity smacked into his foot. He jumped back with a curse and made a rude gesture at Jack who barked a sharp laugh.

Brock bent, rubbing his sore foot, and began to gather up what he dropped. He scooped up a thin, well read book and frowned as a couple pieces of paper fell out of it.

He bent to pick it up and realized it was an old polaroid. He flipped it over. It was a photo of a young woman. She stood in profile, silhouetted against dirty windows. She stood at the stove, stirring something in a pot, hair trying to escape its pins.

Brock didn’t even notice Jack until he felt the bigger man behind him and a hand gently took the photo from him.

Neither of them spoke for a long moment. Brock looks back and slightly up to Jack. The younger man’s eyes were fixed on the photo. After a moment, Jack glanced at him. His adams apple bobbed as he swallowed.

“This was the first photo I ever took,” he said softly. “September, 1984. My mother bought me a camera for my ninth birthday.”

Brock wasn’t really sure what to say so he didn’t say anything. He looked back down at the photo before looking at the book that it had come from. Casino Royal.

It fell open in his palm, the spin worn from being constantly being opened to the same page. As it did, a loose piece of paper fell from the book and drifted to the floor. Brock stooped to pick it up.

“Hemming’s Grocery? This is a grocery receipt,” Brock said confused.  
Jack said nothing, gently taking the paper from Brock and flipping it over. Someone had written on the back in neat, curling penmanship.

“Flying at Night by Ted Koosner?” Brock questioned, reading the top line.  
“We were really tight on money when I was a kid,” Jack explained. “Could barely afford to keep the lights on, let alone waste money on books.” Brock nodded. That probably explained why Jack had such a huge collection now.

“So,” Jack continued. “She would go to the library and copy down her favourite poems on scraps of paper, grocery receipts, envelopes, whatever she had.”  
He took the poem from Brock’s hand and began to read.

“Above us, stars. Beneath us, constellations,” Brock leaned back against Jack’s chest and listened to the low rumble of his voice.

“Five billion miles away, a galaxy dies like a snowflake falling on water. Below us, some farmer, feeling the chill of that distant death, snaps on his yard light, drawing his sheds and barn back into the little system of his care. All night, the cities, like shimmering novas, tug with bright streets at lonely lights like his.”

Jack slipped the photo back between the pages and placed the book into the box with the others. “That was her favourite poem.”  
Brock would have said more on the subject but Jack interrupted anything he would of said by asking “You want a beer?”

Brock shut his mouth and nodded. That was kind of like a signal between them, letting the other know that they really didn't want to talk about something anymore.

 

After a couple months the renovations were complete and Brock found himself putting everything back into brand new bookshelves. He kept Jack in the corner of his eye as the other man unpacked a box of books.

He saw Jack go still, staring intently into the box. Brock hid a smile and busied himself with unloaded the rest of his box. He saw Jack reach down with careful fingers and pulled out a long rectangular frame.

The younger man stared at it for a long time before turning over his shoulder to look at Brock. Brock pointedly ignored him, setting the last of the books back on the shelf. Jack looked back down at the frame. He took a deep breath and gently placed it on the shelf.

A moment later and Brock felt strong around encircle him from behind. Scratchy six o'clock shadow rasped against his cheek and lips pressed a gentle kiss to his temple. Brock said nothing, reaching up a hand to wrap around one of those arms, and cast a glance across the bookshelf.

Nestled in a neat metallic frame, protected by glass and cork, was the picture of his mother. Beside it was a grocery receipt with a poem handwritten on the back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was really hard to write, I am so sorry. I've added the first Chapter of Year 2010 already as something nice and sweet to read after this heartache. The next couple of years are gonna be a lot kinder on the boys, I promise!!

**Author's Note:**

> This is a short year, balancing a good memory with a very sad one....


End file.
